Pretty Little Bird
by Demented Inu
Summary: Pretty little birds are meant to be kept in cages. The German occupation of Paris. Prussia/France, warning for implied noncon.


Warning: The story you are about to read contains sensitive topics involving wartime brutality, rape, and fascism. Please do not continue reading if you are at all sensitive to these topics. I meant no offense to anyone, so please don't continue if you have issues with the aforementioned subjects._  
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><p><em>"Some days... some days, my friend, I just wish you would have killed me. Then I would not have to relive the nightmare day after day."<em>

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><p><strong>Paris, France. 1944. <strong>

This might have been a bedroom once.

Francis can't remember much anymore. There are indentations in the carpet where the legs of a dresser might have stood, years ago. Remains of silk curtains hang in tatters near the window, though not enough of them to shade him from any sunlight that might one day peek through the clouds again. Yes, it... it _might _have been a bedroom. He thinks perhaps it was his own. Not that it matters; even if there had once been sheets he would have slept comfortably in, or a wardrobe that had once held his night gowns and petticoats, or a full-length mirror with which to watch himself transform from a sleepy enemy of morning to a perfect French gentleman...

No, none of it matters. Where once there may have been a bed, there now is just the worn-down mattress layered in dust. Where once there may have stood a wardrobe or a mirror, there now stands the stale air of a bare bedroom in the heart of Occupied Paris.

The walls are a blank gray, and he leans against them so help the pain in his back. He remembers that French gentleman from his reflection quite well; beautiful locks of long hair, golden in the sunlight, and a waistcoat, and ruffles, and a bright wardrobe to match his sunny personality. Funny that now, he can't bring himself to care, twisting strands of greasy, unwashed tangles in his hands. His breath, at one time smelling of mint or cinnamon or spices, comes in foul shakes and shivers that are now more habitual than he would like them to be.

None of it _matters_.

The shivers are habitual. Each tremble a force of habit that he just can't break. He hasn't eaten in weeks, nothing more than crusts of bread given to him to keep him alive, because he is a nation, and even the guards have discovered that as long as you give a crumb, you can keep nations alive for much longer than regular humans. His own mistake, he supposes, letting them discover what sort of secret they're hiding behind locked doors.

A glance outside shows him the streets, and an attendance car parked on the curb, sleek and black and glossed in the evening light. Beautifully waxen in the wan light of day breaking out in the empty streets, rubble only making the vehicle look stronger and more dominant in the unnaturally small city. He muses as much and sees someone step out of the car dressed all in black with a bright red band around their arm. Mechanical salutes and the clacks of heels from the pretty dogs at the front door warn him of his visitor before he can see their face beneath the brim of their cap. Pretty, pretty pawns; guard dogs that stand strictly at attention and keep this bird in his cage.

Where birds belong. In cages.  
><em><br>Are they foaming for another taste?_

There is a period of pause before the moment of truth. Francis imagines his captor as he hears the footfalls ascending the ornate staircase to the chipped door. This same door unlocks with a rusted click and opens with a creak of protest.

Francis shields his eyes from the electric light suddenly flooding into the bedroom; thin hands block his corneas from further damage. "Come to see me again-?" But the man in the doorway boasts a smirk that Ludwig never would. Sharp eyes and sharper teeth. Alabaster skin and hair that his fingers had once lovingly combed through.

"Expecting _mein bruder_?" The door closes lightly behind him, knob clacking shut with a soft groan as a bright yet vacant smile ghosts over Gilbert's face. Gilbert leans back against that door with the quintessence of confidence and cockiness, tall and broad and ungodly strong. And Gilbert knows it, too - Francis can see it in his eyes. In his posture. "I told him to keep his hands off of you, same for the soldiers. Though..." A pause, and Gilbert becomes disturbingly thoughtful for a moment's passing. "...they _do_ have listening problems, these days."

Francis pretends not to be afraid, but his tendencies get the better of him and he finds himself sinking back into the wall as though trying to turn that same shade of gray, trying to vanish into the architecture. "I-"

"You look alive," Gilbert scoffs. "Start thanking me."

Eyes narrowed in a glare, he stiffens, mouth forming a thin line. "I will thank you for this when hell freezes over. Though at this rate..." His tone wavers; he pushes on, "At the rate you and _ton frere_ are going, it may have already and the world hasn't taken notice." He shivers still, though it isn't cold to him anymore. Simply numb now, and so he brings his thin arms around himself, still glaring up at him from his position on the floor - and despite the look on his face, his voice drops to just above a whisper. "And the others? How are they faring?"

He asks about one nation in particular, trusting Gilbert to know which he means.

Prussia sneers. All teeth. A vicious smirk upturns his lips and there's a spark in those eyes that Francis doesn't like. At first he ignores the question asked of him and instead says, "You_ should_ be thanking me, you know, _mausi_. You still have your tongue, after all."

Picking himself up from the door, his captor begins walking toward him in a manner so predatory it makes Francis flinch back and hit his head on the wall. Gilbert scoffs. The air is cold with tension, and for the time being, the other is just looking at him, looming close and boring his gaze right into Francis's skin so that it burns.

That tone turns sweet and soft but with an ominous grit he whispers, close to Francis's face, "Netherlands, Belgium, Luxembourg..." A gloved hand, each finger jutting as he counts off the nations fallen victim to the same situation Francis is in now. "Poland, Czechoslovakia... They all met an ounce of it, and the Baltics have been sold right back into slavery..."

A sharp turn and Gilbert looks at him like a teacher would a student. "Now, you know I like you much more than them, France. You're one of my favorite losers. Take a guess, any guess, at what your preordained fate was..." He sways gently, obviously have a sick sort of fun with this, but his demeanor is unsettlingly serious.

Francis feels bile in his throat as he watches him. This is nothing like the Gilbert he had known as a child, or even from just a few years ago; no, this is an entirely new Prussia altogether, reborn, it seems, as a half of Germany nobody had been expecting. "_Oui_, I'm sure you just adore me, enough to give your _frere_ free reign over me." He looks to Gilbert with what he hopes in an even glare that doesn't give away how scared he is, how anxious, with that humiliating surrender racing through his veins. "I understand that his mental state is... jarred, thanks to circumstances, thanks to our treatment of him after the last war, but... Gilbert..."

The personal name is used only to try and make a connection. There is a small flicker of familiarity in Gilbert's eyes.

"Our Trio. This isn't how it's supposed to be. C-convince them to let me go... give my country back to me," he pleads. "You can have all of the others. This... this isn't..."

Not a second passes before Gilbert immediately strikes him just below the temple in a fit of rage. Gilbert looks at him with a look of sheer fury and bloodlust as a sob wrenches from Francis's throat, and that pale hand grips his jaw and forcefully lifts him up off the ground. When did Gilbert get so strong? Strong enough to lift Francis off the floor completely.

"Ludwig is totally and completely fine," Prussia whispers, low and menacing. "He'll soon be on top of the world, his world, and I'm damn fucking proud of him and his unwavering strength as _you_-" The grip tightens, and Francis whimpers as he feels a tight enough hold to bruise the bones. "-and your _allies_ have shoved him in the mud and held him under. So how does it feel, _Francis_, my _friend_? Antonio's off in la-la-fucking-land. I bombed the shit out of him! Does he care? No! He's busy stabbing himself with scissors over fascism!" He barks a laugh. "We'll have all of you fucking Europeans soon enough - why give _you_your land back?"

Blood drips down Francis's chin; apparently cut his lip on his teeth when Gilbert had struck him. Swallowing, he trembles in his hold and looks to him with fear. "S-s'il vous plait. Prussia... Gilbert, mon ami, this isn't you, non, this isn't you. You are sick, that's all, s'il vous plait... _J'ai rend. Je suis sous contrôle allemand. Pourquoi avez-vous l'aggraver en perpétuant brisure de votre frère?"_

Those bright eyes narrow further and another gloved hand wrings around Francis's reddening neck, constricting to shut him up on the last word uttered. With his air supply cut short, Gilbert gives a dark chuckle.

"Oh, Francis, I haven't made anything significantly worse. This is me - I'm here for my brother, for the war. And you know how much I just fucking love war. And that's my spirit, in the flesh, here, and not pressed under the heels of capitalism, shelling out pfennigs as _our_people are shunned and left in the ashes, only to rise again, and for a thousand years you'll be submerged... fucking idiots, you all are." The air strains through his throat and into his lungs, chest aching for oxygen before Gilbert loosens his grip and cocks a small gun. "Your precious Angleterre is next. Forgot to mention that, oh, how silly of me..."

A fire starts. Green eyes, scarred skin, tousled blond hair. Francis struggles against him.

"He... he will fight back!" Francis chokes out. "You won't be able to- Gilbert! Gilbert, attacking Angleterre is a terrible plan. If you love war so much, if you are so f- fond of taking, you should know that Angleterre is much too... much too resilient to ever fall at your hands."

Gilbert barks a laugh at that. Those frighteningly scarlet eyes danced gleefully with the no doubt predictable response. Francis wonders when Gilbert will tire of his chatter and merely kill him; Ludwig already has, he's been told that much too clearly.

"No, you see- it's a flawless plan," Gilbert tells him. "We almost have control of the skies. To be exact..." A chilling pause as Gilbert glances to a clock tower out the window. One of the only things left standing in this poor city, it would seem. A smirk pulls at Gilbert's lips, one that nearly stops Francis's heart. "Oh... not quite yet, that's right. But we do have most of those three Scandinavian peninsulas... Denmark's a shiny button with more luftwaffe stations as well." Francis feels the harsh patting of his cheek and then suddenly he's being thrown backwards, down onto the bed; his breath catches as he hits the mattress hard, as he looks up at Gilbert and sees the feral look there. "Your coast will surely help. The Third Reich thanks you oh-so-dearly for that.

"If anything," he continues with a singular clap of his hands, "If anything you should laugh at how funny this is, Francis! He tells you to just keep giving my awesome brother more land, pacify him, give him candy, and oh, look - we actually are kicking your asses! And England doesn't seem to fucking care for you at all! Left to sing all alone in your pretty cage, right, Francis?" A fake pout, eyes as red as the armband Gilbert bears and a menacing smirk to go with it, teeth looking sharp and mean, no ounce of happiness in him at all. Total and complete schadenfreude, and Francis knows it.

Instinctively, Francis pulls his knees up, absolutely ready to kick at Gilbert's chest if need be. He's been trying, trying so hard, to have even a little bit of fight left in him. He's tired of being trampled on and mocked as the country that cannot, under any circumstances, defend himself.

But Gilbert is having none of it.

He whispers, "Oh, I wouldn't kick me if I were you... France."

Attempting a facade of toughness, Francis fists his hands as well, though his teeth chatter and fear rushes through his veins. "Arthur cares. He just hasn't come yet, but he will. And even if he doesn't, someone will, I'm sure of it. I'm... I'm the powerful French Empire... they wouldn't forget about me... wouldn't leave me to the likes of you." He keeps those knees up, feet poised for a hard push to the solar plexus if it comes down to it. Arms-length meant survival, just arms-length away, not asking for much more.

Instead, Gilbert takes the luger out of his coat, immediately poises the tip right to the side of Francis's knee, and blasts it through.

Both kneecaps shatter with the force of the bullet, blood erupting, but Francis only feels the shock for a long moment, jolting more at the noise of the shot than the pain, which doesn't follow until a moments later. Finally he blinks down at what's just happened, and only then feels a choked sort of scream tear from his throat, watching the blood pour and drench the bare mattress.

Francis sobs dryly as he rolls onto his side for defense, hearing Gilbert say as though promising a grave, "Oh, you won't be dealing with me much longer." The click of a gun barrel, and Francis flinches, covering himself with his arms, but nothing comes. Gilbert's checking bullets, that's all he's doing. "Nope. Not me. Now tell me, Francis, what were you saying? I'm sorry, I wasn't sure I heard you correctly."

Those gloved hands grip the epicenters of bloodflow with iron fists, and Francis makes a raw noise in the back of his throat.

"You're... 'powerful'-" A harsh squeeze. "-was it? Hmm." There's a kiss to his cheek then, making him tense and push at him. "I don't think any of your 'friends' can hear you now, _mon cher_." Lips brushing down, down, against his neck. "Now, you are not this stupid little empire fantasy, France. You're part of the Third Reich now. Repeat that."

He feels the sick accented French as much as he feels the blood pumping from his wounds, coating Gilbert's gloves, coating Francis's pants, the bed, dripping onto the floor from the mattress. He feels the words as much as he feels the way Gilbert's midsection fits so perfectly between his legs, just as it always did, and it's that moment that he realizes there's no way out of this but to follow along, and even then he'll be forced to submit. It's only then that he decides to try and find some sort of Napoleonic bravery, something like power, only it's so diminished, far out of his reach like a flickering candle in the darkness, that it's all he can do to look up at Gilbert's face and gather up enough blood-and-saliva mixture in his mouth to spit right between Gilbert's eyes between sobs.

"Fuck you and your Reich."

Gilbert's expression of domineering sadism then goes stone cold, eyes icy and sharp as he hits Francis hard in the teeth with the butt of his gun, straight on the lips that are already trickling blood, and screams at him in blind fury as he wipes the spit from his face. A punch in the lower jaw, and Gilbert grabs up his shirt from the torso and practically flings him onto the floor, kicks him straight in the ribs.

"Not going to go easy, you fucking whore? Alright! Well, I _was_ going to ease you without the lubrication of your own cowardly blood so Germany wouldn't pain you so much-" The words are lewd, crude and cold, and Francis gives barely a squeak of protest when Gilbert stomps on him with a crunch of bone. "-but conveniently in the cordiality of contradiction-" A kick in the stomach, boot telling a crack of a rib. "-the Third _Reich_ will fuck _you_."

Briefly, Francis can hear the sound of the door wrenching open, and Gilbert's voice again, though swimmy, still clearly audible: "Here, _mein kleine hunds_. Make sure he doesn't sleep a wink any night, you horny little fucks... I rescind all of my commands to keep this birdie in a pretty gilded cage - rip it to shreds, feathers everywhere, but leave enough meat for _mein bruder._"

The ring of heels drawing nearer. Fluid fills his lungs, and he coughs so harshly that blood and mucus spill onto the floor, and he presses a palm into the filthy floor to try to rise. The slippery fluid makes him fall again, looking up at his friend in the doorway - the nation he'd called a friend until recently, anyway - and wondering, absently, what England would think of him if he ever found out - not bothering to plead for mercy, or beg to be released.

He doesn't fight this because he's tired, and because he's weak, and he lays there in his own filth for what feels like minutes upon minutes before he chokes up on his own blood, and curls up tighter on himself, and waits for the inevitable.


End file.
